La question du jour:
"What is Craig Bartholomew's middle name?"
On this subject the man is quite secretive. We do know, however, that it begins with the letter "G"...what could it be? Here are some (not so) educated guesses:
-"Gustav"...Craig does share the same first initials as Jung. Could he be the intellectual son of the great Swiss psychologist?
-"Guenther"...what are the odds!?
-"Guido"...Italian ancestry is unlikely, but should not be ruled out.
-"Giles"...I should include an English name. And what better name than Giles. It means "young goat".
-"Guevara"...as in Che Bartholomew!

"What language shall I borrow to thank-you, dearest Friend,
for this, your dying sorrow, your mercy without end?
Lord, make me yours forever, a loyal servant true,
and let me never, never outlive my love for you."

O Sacred Head, Now Wounded (v. 3)

The Bath (part II)
The phoenix rises from the fire-water of his birthing place. He steps over the ivory edge of his tomb. He glides over the tile floor. He pauses in front of the mirror to admire the lithe physique of his newly formed body. Sworls of steam writhe around the sinews of his fleshy muscles. He raises his arms in a victor's pose. Biceps, triceps, and quadriceps flex in unison. The phoenix bends his sleek figure toward the flickering flame of a vanilla-scented candle. With a quick and mighty breathe the room becomes an obsidian black. The magnificent beast flips the light switch: (Gasp)
"Aww shit!!!"
Endless glob-puddles of blue wax splay the bathroom wall, the mirror, the sink, the counter, -even the toilet-shrine did not escape the radius of such a mighty breath. The beast's shoulders sag, his head hangs low. The mighty phoenix reaches for a rag.

The Bath (part I)
Last nite I took a hot bath to relax. I was a little apprehensive about performing @ the open mic and my body reflected it: my neck, a mess of knots and the rest of me all aches and pains. So I decided a steaming hot bath was in order. I dug up a few scented candles from under my bed, and after lighting them, turned off the lights and dipped into the water. The water was so hot and the lighting so perfect that when I sat up my skin was visibly steaming. My arms looked like fleshy white flames. Shadows licked the glistening dew-drops of water from my chest. I felt like a mythical creature reborn.

here is a poem. i wrote it with the intention of setting it to a waltz i’m working on. i’ve been listening to a lot of odd folk music lately and i wanted to write a song that might echo the myth and melodrama of such music. what follows are the verses:

once i drank so much wine
from the lips of my lover;
but today it cannot rain
and i feel the curse all over

nights i wake:
my tongue a withered flower;
while her lips open to another
the taste grows sour

morning passes and I stand
to the window before the day dies;
if only i could drink
the red of deep Missouri skies

Hello Hello. Here I am. All is well.
So it's Friday and here I am sitting in Redeemer's libary...preparing myself for HOURS of reading. I was about to set up camp when I noticed a series of markings scrawled in black on the walls:
<-- REM--->
My guess is that this is a short-hand for the construction crew who need to know where the appropriate places are to drill, jackhammer, detonate expolisives, and undertake various other activities that cause a big hubbaloo of noise while we sit in class. Oh but the irony! Our libary is sooo condusive to sleep! (mmm sleep). The lack of air circulation, the dim lighting, the dusty books, the warm atmosphere, the comfy chairs (okay maybe not the chairs)...and now signs that say "REM" with arrows pointing in all directions -very appropriate.
That is all.